


Bathroom Break

by MadameFolie



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Quickies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 13:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4879192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameFolie/pseuds/MadameFolie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a quickie. (Another from the kinkmeme.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bathroom Break

_Knock three times, wait for my three knocks, and then knock back thrice more,_ read the instructions on the small slip of paper. Sweden obeys, knocking three times on the door to the bathroom. When three slow knocks come in reply, she knocks again and is rewarded with the gentle click of the lock opening. She casts a glance both ways to ensure that nobody is coming before folding the paper back up, slipping inside, and closing the door behind her.  
  
  
Norway’s hands find their way to her hips immediately; As soon as the lock is restored, he guides her away from the door and up against the cool tile wall for a kiss. He has to stand on his toes to reach.  
  
  
“That code,” she mutters, breaking free to breathe. “‘s a distress signal.” In Morse. At least, it had sounded like it. He must have known that, with all the years he has spent at sea. Such modes of communication are as familiar to him as his own tongue. There is no way he could not have. Norway pulls back in turn.  
  
  
“Thought y’might need a rescue from that meeting,” he says, and nudges the side of Sweden’s foot with his toe. “Off.” Sweden complies again, peeling the heeled shoes off and kicking them aside. Norway seems satisfied with this. He returns for one more experimental kiss, much easier than the last. This time he lingers longer, his thumb tracing circles against her hip before he nods in approval.  
  
  
“Better. If we,” he begins. “If we get too mussed, they’ll know we’ve been up to summat.”  
  
  
Sweden closes her eyes, concentrating on the pressure of his fingers. It is not that she is disappointed, but she would have liked— would have liked to have had him inside her. Even if only for a little while. But. The mess. There is their privacy to consider, and they are already taking too many risks as it is. She will have to mask the swelling of her lips if she has brought any lipstick.  
  
  
“If y’want, we could,” and her breath catches in her throat as Norway’s hands make their way up to the buttons of her blouse. “Have dinner. ‘m makin’ soup tonight.” They could eat in companionable silence, perhaps, and he could wait, reading, as she cleaned up. The possibilities flash behind her closed eyelids: Norway, removing the pins holding her hair in place. Lying on her back on the sheets, breast in Norway’s mouth and his arousal firm and warm against her thigh. Bent over on her knees, pillows beneath her hips for support, Norway’s hand pressed low against her belly—  
  
  
“Can’t. Flyin’ back t’Oslo at four.” Norway indicates the lace trim of her bra. “Plannin’ ahead, were ya?”  
  
  
Sweden feels her face flush painfully red, and redder still when he brings his lips to the side of her breast.  
  
  
“…I like this bra,” she says. And it is true. A skirt and blouse had seemed such a plain ensemble. If only for the benefit of her own knowledge, she had thought she might offset the plainness. Norway looks up at her.  
  
  
“I like it, too,” he says, and begins to unzip her skirt.

Her next discussion begins at one-thirty, his at two. At the most, they both of them together have half an hour before they are missed. Sweden does not last ten minutes with Norway between her legs. Skirt, nylons, and panties go over the metal bar fixed to the wall and Norway lowers himself slowly to his knees. He wastes no time in slipping his fingers into her; the sudden fullness finds her clutching the bar for fear her legs will betray her. She draws in a deep breath, then, slowly, and then another. Carefully, in time with the strokes of his tongue against her.  
  
  
“Can’t— can’t have ya—” She pauses, searching for the words. “Inside?”  
  
  
Norway rocks back onto his heels.  
  
  
“Couldn’t last.”  
  
  
“Just a few minutes.”  
  
  
“Couldn’t last,” Norway repeats. Sweden moans, contracting around him, the thought of Norway shuddering against her in mere moments vivid in her mind. “Holdin’ out for that dinner, though.”  
  
  
“This weekend,” she breathes, resting her hand at the nape of his neck where the hairs grow soft and fine.  
  
  
“In Bergen. Friday, the twelfth. I’ll be stopping in Stockholm overnight. Ain’t keen on hotels.”  
  
  
Sweden shakes her head.  
  
  
“Sealand’s comin’ to visit. Spendin’ the holidays at his place this year.”  
  
  
“He’ll miss th’Christmas cake.”  
  
  
“Told’m. But ‘s what he wants. Makes’m feel—” Norway’s fingers curl inside her. “Feel mature, bein’ on his own.”  
  
  
“Good on’m. Twenty-sixth.”  
  
  
“Yes,” she says. Then “Yes,” once more when he presses his tongue against her for permission and then in. It is not enough, not on its own. She imagines it is the tip of his cock. She does not think it is in his way to tease so, but her body responds to the fantasy as much as the actuality and in the end, that is what pushes her over the edge— the anticipation of a fullness that does not come and the promise that it will.  
  
  
Before her legs have the opportunity to give out, Norway stands. With her arm over his shoulders, he guides her to the toilet seat to compose herself. He washes his mouth at the sink while she catches her breath. Sweden’s legs are still shaking when he bends down to touch his lips to hers.  
  
  
“’s a date, then,” he says.

 

 

 

With fifteen minutes to go, she leans over –still sitting— to take him into her mouth. Just for a moment: she purses her lips about the head, sucks once, and pulls away to watch his eyelids flutter shut. Then back again to tongue along the slit. Norway swears quietly. Strokes his testes with a thumb.

 

“We’ll do this proper,” he promises. “On th’twenty-sixth.” Sweden hums her assent. “Figure you’ll be wanting t’wash up first. Freshen up. Get th’perfume off so your neck don’t taste like it.” He is right. She encourages him with a hand over his. Brushes over what his thumb does not with the pads of her fingers. “I’ll wait in th’master bed. Leave th’door open.”

 

She cannot see it, but she is certain he must be blushing now, too. She can hear it in his voice. It has grown stiff. Tense. Taut, somehow, as if the words are from somewhere foreign within him.

 

Foreign, but good. If he would like for her to strip away the layers of herself before him for his pleasure, then she will. Make a show of undoing herself before he sees her undone. She slides her free hand to the small of his back to bring him in deeper. Sweden supposes this has reassured him, for he goes on:

 

“Got Friday night, an’ all Saturday t—” his hips jerk forward of their own volition as he tries to give voice to the words. “T—t’make sure you’re not walkin’ right Monday.”

 

Sweden moans around him and cups him more firmly. If she could just impress the feel of him, every inch of dip and curve and soft ridge of flesh, into her memory until then—

 

He is close. Close enough that he is tightening in her hand and his control over the movement of his hips is slipping. His occasional thrusts, at first minute, grow more frequent. Stronger, and more erratic.

“Wait, don’t wanna,” he mumbles. His hips suddenly flex hard, first forward then back, as if he means to draw out. Sweden holds him steady as best as she can with the hand at his spine. He comes, pulsing, between her lips, but with the angle changed, she cannot stop the mess that trickles from the corner of her mouth.

 

“…muss your makeup,” he finishes. Once he has wiped himself clean, Norway offers her a fresh bit of toilet paper, neatly folded, and says: “Go on an’ spit.”

 

Sweden shakes her head, taking the toilet paper for her chin instead.

 

“’m fine,” she says, standing. “Just need a quick rinse.” To wash out what she could not swallow. She supposes she will be running her tongue along her teeth all afternoon regardless. Wordlessly, Norway fastens his pants and retrieves her clothing from the rail. Helps her step into her panties and zips the back of her skirt for her before breaking the silence.

 

“Condoms, then. For th’next time.” Sweden thinks to protest, but the thought of preparing him stops her short— they could easily go without. But. If she. With her mouth, following her fingers in rolling it down his length, and his breath is coming in soft gasps as he steadies himself against the headboard, bracing himself so as not to buck into her.

 

“Maybe,” she says, gathering up her shoes. “Got five minutes. Should be getting’ back, now. Or they’ll be lookin’ for me.” She is not so foolish as to believe that her staff would not have their suspicions, but she would rather not allow her indiscretions to confirm them.

 

Norway nods, replacing his jacket.

 

“You can go first. I’m headin’ fer the west end conference rooms, so ‘s all the better. Jiggle the handle if y’see someone comin’, mind. An’—” he rises up onto his toes for one last light kiss. Sweden cannot help herself; She wraps an arm around him to bring him closer, drag the kiss out a little longer. She wonders if he can taste traces of himself when he runs his tongue along the inside of her mouth. He does break away at last, flushed, and gentler for it. He carefully tucks a stray bit of hair behind her ear with three minutes remaining, and reaffirms the promise: “An’ see you on the twenty-sixth.”


End file.
